


Without Words

by DreamerInSilico



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 20:11:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16839562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamerInSilico/pseuds/DreamerInSilico
Summary: The relationship between Jarl Balgruuf and his housecarl Irileth is deeply mutually protective, and they don't need much in the way of words to communicate.





	Without Words

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for/posted on the Skyrim Kink Meme.

He keeps his voice steady as he instructs the newcomer mage to follow Irileth outside the city and engage the dragon, but he holds all of his concern and worry in his eyes, and he knows that Irileth sees.   
  
The _dragon_. There is a beast out of legend attacking Whiterun, and the best extra support he can muster for his housecarl is a tiny slip of a Breton mage who might very well blow away in a stiff breeze. The Companions have vouched for the woman, new to their ranks, but he is loath to trust her at Irileth’s side.   
  
Lacking much choice, he sends them off, stomach knotted with worry that he cannot, must not show. Irileth’s eyes are blood and fire as she makes her bow and takes her leave. A thousand times, her sword arm has held strong in his defense. A thousand times, she has returned to her post by his throne, unbowed, unbroken. Tonight, she will not fail.   
  
…  
  
She breaks into a jog as they exit the city gates, her guardsmen and women falling into disciplined step behind her. The mage is nearby, another woman of the Companions loping alongside her with an arrow already knocked to her recurve bow. Irileth had sensed her lord’s unease with asking the Breton’s aid minutes earlier, but her fierce words had quelled his protests a moment before Yvette had entered the hall. She would rather have the extra ranged support from the mage than spend overlong worrying about the woman’s precision. She’s dodged fireballs before, and been none the worse for wear.   
  
Balgruuf had wanted to join her – she could tell in the slight twitch of his fingers against the arm of his throne and the tension in the muscles of his forearm. She shakes her head slightly as she runs, remembering. Since the axe-cut that scarred his shoulder, it has been his place to maintain the center, to direct actions from afar. It is hers to see that no enemy will ever reach him there.   
  
An ear-splitting roar shakes the firmament, and Irileth draws her bow. The dragon is upon them.   
  
…  
  
When the door to the hall bangs open and the runner from the western watchtower hurries in, he draws a deep breath and forgets to let it out until the young man has finished speaking.   
  
“The dragon is slain, milord!”   
  
“Casualties?” Balgruuf asks, voice neutral. It is his least favorite question, and one he must ask all too often.   
  
“Two of the Tower guards, and one horse, milord. The men’s bodies are being brought by litter.”   
  
He nods his dismissal, and the boy scurries out with a bow. He should feel more sorrow for the two lives lost, he knows, but this time, the relief is too strong to be overtaken – it could have been much, much worse.   
  
…  
  
She strides proudly into the great hall to return to her place at her lord’s right hand. Her armor is scorched and her ruddy hair wild, but her blood runs hot and vital within her veins. She is _alive_. She has faced down a dragon, and the city lies unscathed.   
  
Balgruuf’s words of thanks are to the mage – and dovahkiin, it seems – for the human’s service was a favor given rather than a duty discharged, but the relieved welcome in his face as he looks on her is all the gratitude Irileth requires. This is her home, and her Jarl, and she will not see them threatened. 

...

No words have been exchanged between them, but when he finally retires, he knows that he will not find his chambers empty.   
  
Sure as bedrock, she is waiting for him in the anteroom, clad in a clean, soft tunic instead of battle leathers, as few have ever seen her. She offers him a mug of mulled wine with a murmured suggestion that it might ease the strain of worry that after all these years, he’s fairly certain she can _smell_ upon him… but he sets the warm mug aside on the tray and slides knotted fingers into her damp, just-washed hair, instead.   
  
Her lips are eager and hard under his, her teeth scraping against his tongue as he sweeps it into her mouth. He savors the echo of spiced wine on her tongue as much as the sudden urgency of her hands when they slip beneath his doublet and trace lines of heat across his chest. While he drags his mouth down the graceful line of her dusky throat, his own hands are already free of her hair and busy with the fastenings of her trews – the tunic can come off after he finishes with her neck, though the soft noise she makes when he bites down makes him want to linger there far longer.   
  
He licks at the skin and bites down a bit lower, and somehow her damnably clever fingers have already made it into the front of his trousers and are so _warm_ against his flesh, cupping his suddenly aching sac with one hand as his shaft hardens in her other. The short stroke she makes, though still constrained by fabric, makes sparks dance across his vision, and he growls into the crook of her shoulder before backing off just enough to pull her tunic and undershirt off over her head. She kicks the leggings off from around her ankles where they have fallen and stands naked before him; the battle-hardened muscles on her compact, almost stocky frame are gloriously familiar to him, and he can’t resist tracing them with his hands as he has done on so many nights before this.   
  
He tells himself that he is _not_ checking her for injuries, but her small smile says she knows otherwise. She always knows otherwise.   
  
Then her fingers tighten on his erection, and he remembers that he is wearing far too much clothing, still – a problem which is remedied with a martial efficiency as soon as it is noted. She advances on him like a wild snowcat, and while his deft hand on her breast makes her eyelids flutter in pleasure, she is not balked from her purpose. Almost before he realizes it, he is backing into the bedchamber, and then he’s falling onto the coverlet and she is crawling up his body, tongue wet and hot up his ribcage and neck, and so very sweet when it reaches his mouth again.   
  
He thrusts a finger between her spread thighs just to feel her gasp into the kiss – when he slides it out she is already sinking down toward him. His hands move up to cup her breasts and tease at her nipples the way he knows she enjoys, and a moment later her heat envelops him in a silken vise, taking him all the way to the hilt.   
  
Her blood-colored eyes hold his as she begins to move, and their bodies part and collide again in a heady rush like the clashing of swords. 


End file.
